The Seventh Circle
by Glenonaya
Summary: How would "Amok Time" have ended if, during the events on Vulcan, McCoy hadn't come up with the plan of using the neural tranquilliser on Jim? An idea born from this little gem of conversation between T'Pau and Spock after the kal-if-fee is done. T'Pau: "Live long and prosper, Spock." Spock: "I shall do neither. I have killed my captain. And my friend."


**A/N:** Thoroughly depressing. I mean it, this story has absolutely inothing/i cheerful about it whatsoever. Tagged with Major Character Death, but really that should be plural.

Thanks go to Museaway for fact checking and helpful suggestions, this is my first TOS fic and I probably wouldn't have dared publish it without her help, and as always to Lucycantdance for knocking my English into proper shape. I love you both to bits.

_'But fix you eyes below, for we draw near_

_the river of blood that scalds_

_those who by violence do injury to others'_

_Dante: "The Divine Comedy – Inferno", Canto XII, line 46-48_

"There can be no excuse for the crime of which I'm guilty. I intend to offer no defence. Furthermore, Mr. Scott shall hereby take immediate command of this vessel." The words fell tonelessly from his lips.

McCoy stared at him, stony faced, eyes twin chips of ice. "Right. Any other orders?" The doctor's voice could politely be called a snarl.

"Only that you summon security and have them escort me to the brig."

The doctor nodded curtly and stabbed viciously at the comm relay. "Scotty? Have two security officers report to sickbay, tell them they're to escort _Captain_ Spock to the brig. And join me in my office when you have the time."

Message delivered, McCoy marched out of the room, leaving Spock without another word. The Vulcan remained as he was, standing straight, hands clasped behind his back, face and eyes an inscrutable mask. When the two security officers arrived, his only acknowledgement of them was to turn so he stood between them.

As they escorted him through sickbay his eyes fell on Nurse Chapel, who was bent over the motionless body lying on one bed, clothing it in its dress uniform of black trousers and bright green tunic with golden collar. Spock quickly averted his eyes.

He did not need to touch the two security officers that were escorting him to sense their anger; it was pouring off them in waves. Given the circumstances he could not fault them for their strong emotional antipathy towards him. Nor did he blame McCoy for his icy wrath. After all, their feelings were nothing compared to the abhorrence and loathing he felt for himself. An illogical feeling, perhaps, but he felt it was justified in light of his actions.

The ensigns halted. One of them opened the door to his cell and stepped aside. Spock entered the small room, still exuding exterior calm, and heard the door lock behind him.

Had he desired it, he could have determined the exact amount of time he stood staring at the white bulkhead opposite him, motionless and unblinking; but he did not desire to know that – or anything else.

He had told Dr McCoy that the... action that had ended the _kal-if-fee_ had broken the _Plak Tow, _which was essentially correct, as the madness of the Blood Fever _was_ gone, his control restored to a degree – and the doctor's cursory examination of him had done nothing to contradict this conclusion – but still he felt the burning of his blood in his veins. His _Pon Farr_ was not concluded. And as he had renounced his betrothed, there could be only one ending.

Spock felt a faint vibrating in the deck as the warp drive engaged and he knew that the Enterprise was on its way to the nearest star base – _a journey of 3.72 days' travel at full warp_, his mind supplied unbidden – where the crew were expecting to hand him over to Starfleet authorities as per his own orders. An event that was unlikely to occur.

While he did have every intention of putting himself in the hands of the authorities if he made it to the star base, the slow but continuous increase of the heat in his blood made such an eventuality... improbable.

The liquid blaze aggravated abruptly, ripping an agonised gasp from his lips, and he closed his eyes for a moment to brace himself.

Immediately the image of his dead captain – _ahn-woon_ wrapped tightly around his throat, digging deeply into the tender skin of his throat, scarlet lines drawn at the edges of the leather strap; hazel eyes staring unseeing at the crimson sky; golden hair tinted angry copper by the sun – flared up on the inside of his eyelids.

"Ji-" He bit off the word. He had no right to say that name. Not now, not anymore.

Keeping his eyes closed – burning the picture to the inside of his eyelids, a means to arm himself against what he knew was to come – he knelt down, feeling the cool metal, hard and unyielding, under his knees. With careful movements he folded his hands in his usual meditative pose, index and middle fingers straight and pressed against each other, thumbs, ring and little finger folded. The spike in the conflagration had faded quickly this time but he knew it would return, longer and more vicious for each repetition, until the inferno consumed him. He knew that must steel himself against it, allow no external clue to his burning, call no attention to his state, or the security staff would feel obliged to summon Dr. McCoy. And the doctor would attempt to save a life that could no longer be saved. That was not worth saving.

He commenced the usual breathing pattern for achieving a deeper trance state, fiercely clinging to the mental image of Kirk – dead by Spock's own hand – as he descended deeper and deeper into the blazing abyss.

Seconds ticked by and turned to minutes.

Faintly, distantly, he sensed the sizzling under his skin, spreading through his body, hissing savagely as the torturous heat increased.

Still deeper he sank, into trance, into memory, into flame, as minutes became hours.

_Strong hands holding him up, concerned voice calling his name._

_Anguish wracking his body._

"_It gives me emotional security."_

_Blood turning to molten lead._

"_...at his side. As if you've always been there and always will."_

_Roaring..._

"_Spock, I'm trying to help you!"_

_...scalding..._

"_I grieve with thee."_

_...consuming._

_Jim..._

_..._

oOoOo

McCoy knelt down on the floor of the cell. He gently touched the Vulcan's shoulder as he put down the tricorder and grabbed the voice recorder from his belt.

"Commander Spock, confirmed dead at 08.23 ship's hour." _How could his voice be so calm? _"When was the last time you checked on him?" he addressed the young security officer standing beside him.

"06.15. I was going to ask if he wanted breakfast," the blonde ensign answered. "He didn't respond. Just kept sitting in that meditating pose he'd held all night."

"And nothing seemed out of sorts?"

"No, Doctor. His breathing was slightly irregular, but then it had been since we brought him here." Her voice grew unsteady. "I didn't think anything of it. I'm sorry sir, I should have-"

Bones held up a hand. "Forget it, there was nothing you could have done," he said. Then continued under his breath, "There wasn't anything any of us could have done."

_He should have known, _he_ of all people should have realised the state the Vulcan was in. Had still been in, damn it. But what could he have done, even if he had realised? Nothing, that was what_._ Bloody Vulcan biology._

_"Trying to placate your conscience, Doctor?" a voice within said. "You could at least have eased his pain. You saw what the Pon Farr did to him, it couldn't have been an easy passing. But you were too busy blaming him for doing something he had no control over to do your job properly."_

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the voice continued mercilessly.

_"And are your hands any cleaner? You at least had your full wits about you down there, that didn't help _you_ save Jim's life."_

Bones ran a hand over his face.

"Well good riddance," a voice drawled.

McCoy's head snapped up to see Lieutenant Hendorff leaning against the door jamb, an arrogant sneer on his face.

"Get me a gurney," the doctor barked at him. The lieutenant straightened perplexed, but didn't move. "NOW!"

Hendorff bolted.

Standing in sickbay, looking down at Spock's body as it lay on the gurney next to the Jim's, McCoy felt more lost than he ever had in his life, even counting just after his divorce.

Heeled shoes approached him, but McCoy didn't turn around, wanting only to be alone.

A full minute passed.

"Doctor?"

Christine was persistent; he'd have to give her that. He turned.

"Yes, Nurse Chapel."

"I brought his dress uniform." She held out the clothes and boots she had held cradled against her chest. Her eyes were blank with unshed tears and her voice trembled slightly. "I thought that-"

"Yes. Of course. If you would..." Bones waved in the direction of Spock's body and fled, coward that he was.

She found him two hours later, standing on the observation deck, staring out into space, a glass of saurian brandy in his hand. "I thought you would like to see them both," she said, her voice gentle.

He nodded and followed her mutely.

"Thank you, Christine," was all he said when she led him into the sickbay room.

She rested her hand lightly on his arm. But when he didn't respond to the touch after several minutes she turned and left him on his own.

Bones remained standing where he was, staring at the two men who had been his best friends. Together in death as they had been in life. Chapel had done a good job, they both looked at peace now. Hell, the Vulcan's features looked positively serene.

Or maybe that was just a trick of the light? Damn fluorescence made his eyes water.

He turned on his heel and stalked out, leaving them behind. The door slid shut behind him, and only silence remained.

**A/N:** The title for this story is inspired by Dante's Divine Comedy where those who have been violent in life are punished in the first ring of seventh circle of hell by being immersed in a river of boiling blood. The reference felt... appropriate.

And if the original script writers can borrow stuff from Shakespeare, surely I am allowed Dante.


End file.
